


Tartan Army

by FaerieChild



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Fluff, Kilts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13041315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaerieChild/pseuds/FaerieChild
Summary: It is the first England v Scotland home international football match for years and at home in Bond's Chelsea apartment, Bond and Q prepare to go to the footie.





	Tartan Army

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I started writing a while ago when the last friendly happened. Some folks were after a bit of fluff so I dragged it out from the WIP file and blew the dust off it. Hope you enjoy.

Bond looked Q up and down. They were about to leave to got to the first major England versus Scotland football match at Wembley in over a decade. Some weeks before over dinner, Bond had abruptly announced he was supporting Scotland. 

Q had been so shocked at this announcement that he had blinked. 

Bond had only smiled and extended an invitation to attend the match together. It wasn't often that they had time off together to do things but somehow Bond had swung it with Tanner and M, and Q had been oddly touched by the gesture. Enough to accept an invitation to spend two hours freezing his bollocks off watching a sport he greatly disliked, just for the pleasure of doing it next to James. 

Which is why he was standing here, in the living room of Bond's apartment, wearing something he had never worn before in his life.

Q looked down at himself and back up at James Bond. “I'll be perfectly honest,” Q began carefully, pressing a finger to his lips. “I'm not entirely sure about the kilt.”

“The kilt is considered somewhat mandatory, Q.”

Q screwed up his face. “Why am I doing this again?”

“Because England and Scotland fans aren't allowed to sit together and you refuse to sit with the England fans.”

“May I remind you,” Q held up a pointed finger, “If you would only support England none of this subterfuge would be necessary.”

Bond chuckled darkly. “As if you care who wins!”

“No, I really don't care all that much, but I don't think there is such a thing as innocent bystanders when it comes to an England-Scotland match,” Q mused. “I don't quite see what all the fuss is about, to be perfectly honest. It's all one island after all.”

“Q, do be a darling and keep that to yourself,” Bond smirked. Bond approached Q and kneeled down to push the kilt socks down from Q's knees to gather at the ankles and then stepped back and checked over his handy work. Replica Scotland shirt? Check. Kilt? Check. Belt, pin and sporran? Check. Hiking boots? Check. Kilt socks pushed down to the ankles.

Check.

Q looked back over Bond's matching outfit curiously. “You don't think it's a bit too...you know...his and his?” Hazel eyes peered at Bond curiously and then drifted downwards. There was no doubt that Bond looked really quite fine in a kilt. Something about his build and all that time in the gym.

“Strange as it may be to a heathen like you, darling, that's sort of the point. They aren't called The Tartan Army for nothing.”

“Bond I'm not a complete idiot.”

“Then stop acting like one. Now we need to do something about your name.”

“My name? What exactly is wrong with my name?”

“Hmm...” Bond mused pointedly, “Sherrinford Theodore Fortesque Holmes...no, I honestly haven't the slightest idea. They're such ordinary names in Scotland, I'm sure you'll pass through completely unnoticed.”

“Oh shut up! I can't just change my name.”

“Of course you can, I do it all the time. We'll call you Malky.”

“What the hell sort of name is that?”

“It's short for Malcolm.”

“Then why not just call me Malcolm.”

Bond pressed his lips together and then took a deep breath. “Fortesque, Darling, tell me something. Have you ever actually met a Scottish person?”

“Of course I have. I met you. And that bloke off the telly. He almost said hi to me once that time I was called to fix the Foreign Secretary's computer.”

“Passing a Scottish journalist in the corridor on your way to an audition for the IT Crowd hardly counts.”

“Don't diss the IT Crowd it's the finest piece of television produced in nearly a century. I'm actually in love with Richard...”

“So you keep reminding me,” Bond smirked and then turned for the front door to grab his jacket. “Come on then, Malky.”

“I am never letting you take me out again,” Q grumbled under his voice. He took a moment to consider the way Bond's kilt swayed when he moved and the tantilising curve of his arse where the chain of the sporran hugged his boyfriend's hips. Then Bond's hand was in his, tugging Q out the door.

“Stop looking at my arse and get a shift on!” Bond told him in a fond voice. 

Still feeling rather put out about the whole thing, Q conceded defeat and allowed James to usher him out the door. “As soon as we get to the stadium I'm getting a stiff drink.”

Bond cleared his throat carefully. “Erm...yes...about that. One small thing I may have forgotten to mention...”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, alcohol bans at sports stadiums is a thing in the UK. Because of reasons.


End file.
